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vivacious Greek broke forth in expressions of joy and congratulations; after which the Egyptian said, with characteristic gravity:

&quot;I salute you, my brother. You have suffered much, and I rejoice in your triumph. If you are both pleased to hear me, I will now tell you who I am, and how I came to be called. Wait for me a moment.&quot; He went out and tended the camels; coming back, he resumed his seat.

&quot;Your words, brethren, were of the Spirit,&quot; he said, in commencement; &quot;and the Spirit gives me to understand them. You each spoke particularly of your countries; in that there was a great object, which I will explain; but to make the interpretation complete, let me first speak of my self and my people. I am Balthasar the Egyptian.&quot;

The last words were spoken quietly, but with so much dignity that both listeners bowed to the speaker.

&quot;There are many distinctions I might claim for my race,&quot; he continued; &quot;but I will content myself with one. History began with us. We were the first to perpetuate events by records kept. So we have no traditions; and instead of poetry, we offer you certainty. On the façades of palaces and temples, on obelisks, on the inner walls of tombs, we wrote the names of our kings, and what they did; and to the delicate papyri we intrusted the wisdom of our philosophers and the secrets of our religion—all the secrets but one, whereof I will presently speak. Older than the Vedas of Para-Brahm or the Up-Angas of Vyasa, O Melchior; older than the songs of Homer or the metaphysics of Plato, O my Gaspar; older than the sacred books or kings of the people of China, or those of Siddârtha, son of the beautiful Maya; older than the Genesis of Mosché the Hebrew—oldest of human records are the writings of Menes, our first king.&quot; Pausing an instant, he fixed his large eyes kindly